


Catch Me If You Can

by Candybara



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Biologically female reader, F/M, Hand Jobs, One Shot, Orgasm Delay, Porn With Plot, Reader-Insert, Seduction, Smut, Stranger Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:26:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9554969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candybara/pseuds/Candybara
Summary: You’re about to stand and ask for a refill when a man plops himself down at your table, and you take a moment to just look at him in confusion, raising a brow at the way he lounges so laxly back in the chair that sits opposite you.He fits in well with the dusty atmosphere, you think as your gaze flicks from the frayed edges of his hat to the faded red of his serape. He’s charmingly rugged and his eyes are lively and bright and overall he strikes you as rough around the edges, but he holds himself proudly nonetheless, a fact that you find a bit naïve considering he looks like he walked straight out of an old horse opera.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Lmao the working title for this fic during the five months I spent getting distracted by other projects was “Bareback Mountain”
> 
> (AKA Porn with Plot, but Every Time Plot Happens the Porn Gets Faster)

The sun is already beginning to set beyond the horizon by the time you find yourself at one of the many old saloons that litter the desert west. You’re not sure why you’re there exactly, because an obscure bar is the last place you want to be right now, but you’re parched beyond preferability, your feet are aching in protest from a full day of travel, and you know your own luck well enough to conclude that you likely won’t run into another town for miles on out.

Still, cynicism lingers in the sweat on your brow, and even as you stand under the strongest smattering of shade that can possibly be bestowed by such a messily-thatched awning, the air seeping through the entryway to the tavern is hot enough to feel heavy and draining, and you can’t help but crinkle your nose when you catch the scent of nicotine mingled with beer, because it’s off-putting to say the least.

You know that you can’t loiter long, however, so you scrape the grime from your boots and try to convince yourself that not even a musty bar can be any worse than staying out with the tumbleweeds and the dust devils. You guess it works in the end, because you feel yourself take a deep breath and step into the saloon, and you almost immediately wish that you hadn’t.

You’re coughing before you can even begin to question the joviality of the place, because even though it’s not crowded, it’s loud and it’s boisterous and there’s an abundance of smoldering cigars that wrap you in their ashen haze, filling the room with a cloud of smoke that carries all the way up to the ceiling joists. There’s laughter and cheer and the clinking of glass mugs, and overall the atmosphere is pungent and stifling, but you deem it tolerable enough and make your way over to the bartender without much hesitation, ignoring each ogling glance stolen by the scarce few patrons who aren’t too busy carousing to take tipsy interest in newcomers.

You straddle the chalky surface of a barstool and lean over the edge of the countertop that stands islanded in the center of the saloon, drumming your fingers against the dry oak as you peruse the assortment of shelves sitting in front of you, most of which are either strewn with cobwebs or stacked with half-empty bottles of booze, or both. You let out a short sigh. If you’re being completely honest with yourself, you don’t even like alcohol, but you order a rattlesnake whiskey anyway because maybe, just maybe the burn will feel better this time. Of course, it never does, and it likely never will, but you can hardly blame yourself for wanting to let your guard down and get wasted, just this once.

The thought quickly passes and you click your tongue at your own absurdity as you scan the room for isolation, doubtful though you hope to find a corner where not even the dingy lighting of the tavern can compete with the shadows of an evening barely started. It’s only when your drink slides up in a cracked glass that you consider downing it and leaving, but instead you rise to your feet and make for the far side of the saloon.

Your boots clack against a stretch of wooden floorboards that have been carved nearly into dirt by years of wear from spurs and metal soles, and though the bullet holes that line the walls are few and far between, they’re there nonetheless, embedded in tatters of plaster and layers upon layers of wanted posters.

There are names you identify by infamy alone, faces you recognize only on paper. Then there are the ones that you’ve met, the ones that you’ve _known_. Many are gone, either dead or captured, and you absentmindedly wonder if any of them are still out there, forever on the run. It’s been said that outlaws are all the same, but you’re not one to force a lie of kinship. After all, what would be the point?

You claim a rickety table that’s sandy to the touch and stained with flecks of tobacco, but the placement of it draws attention mostly away from you and that’s all that really matters. The last thing you want is for someone to recognize you when you too have a bounty on your head that’ll pay off dead or alive.

 _Don’t think about that_ , you tell yourself, shaking your head to clear your mind, because the idea of being shot by a complete stranger and handed in a corpse for nothing more extravagant than a grimy wad of cash almost makes your stomach drop. Almost, but not quite. You’d always told yourself not to be afraid of death, and it must’ve been convincing in the end because at the moment you think you fear captivity more.

You prop one hand up under your chin and use the other to swirl the drink in your grasp, watching with methodical interest as you draw the amber liquor into spiraling up and almost over the rim of your glass, then cocking your wrist to throw it out of centrifugation. You do this once, twice, three times before finally allowing the liquid to touch your lips, and when it does you feel yourself wrench your eyes shut, bracing for the sting of firewater that you know will come inevitably the instant you let the alcohol slosh over your tongue.

It sears as it spills down the back your throat, and you nearly choke into your glass because it’s stronger than you had expected, but you still manage to down it all at once, albeit with some difficulty. The buzz doesn’t kick in immediately, but you feel your insides warm at the potency of it and it’s almost pleasant, even if your mouth still burns just a bit. There’s a nagging part of you that wants more, against your better judgment, and you let out an uncertain hum as you grapple with the temptation.

 _Fuck it_.

You’re about to stand and ask for a refill when a man plops himself down at your table, and you take a moment to just look at him in confusion, raising a brow at the way he lounges so laxly back in the chair that sits opposite you.

He fits in well with the dusty atmosphere, you think as your gaze flicks from the frayed edges of his hat to the faded red of his serape. He’s charmingly rugged and his eyes are lively and bright and overall he strikes you as rough around the edges, but he holds himself proudly nonetheless, a fact that you find a bit naïve considering he looks like he walked straight out of an old horse opera.

You could also probably hold him accountable for a fair percentage of the smoke filling the tavern because the cigar pressed between his lips is all but a butt of flickering ashes at this point, and it’s really not any of your concern but you still find yourself watching in near horror as he proceeds to stamp it out against the table, grinding the last of the embers into the wood amongst countless other blots of tar. You frown at his negligence, at the negligence of everyone else who’d clearly thought it a good idea to use a piece of furniture as an ashtray, but he simply flashes you a lopsided smile and brings a gloved hand up to the brim of his hat, tipping it forward in the simplest of greetings.

“Howdy,” he says, and you stare at him in silence for a good moment as you try to decide how to deal with him. He promotes enough of an air of amiability that you don’t feel entirely threatened by his presence, but there’s also enough discomfort to unsettle you considering you aren’t exactly here to make friends. Nor to get hit on, you think, noting the easy smirk on his face.

“…Can I help you?” You ask at last, surprising even yourself with the accommodating nature of your tone. Hardly a second passes before the man speaks again.

“What’d you have?” He drawls, gesturing to the empty shot glass sitting at your end of the table. You purse your lips at the way he pointedly ignores your question, but you still do your best to take it in stride.

“Bourbon,” you lie for no particular reason, and he makes a sound of approval as he lights another cigar.

“Good choice,” he hums, blowing a puff of smoke towards the ceiling. He leans away a fraction and it’s a miracle his hat doesn’t fall off his head with how he’s all but draped himself over the back of his chair. “Thinkin’ about havin’ a rattlesnake whiskey, myself.”

He says it so offhandedly that if you were drunker you may have thought nothing of it, content to dismiss the comment as mere coincidence. It’s subtle, but you notice, and all at once you feel a series alarms go off in your head because it can’t be a coincidence. It’s _never_ a coincidence, not when you’ve spent enough time on the run to know better.

 _Especially_ not when there’s no longer anyone left for you to trust.

“I’m sorry…” You start, trying to keep the suspicion out of your voice despite the fact that your throat is starting to feel incredibly dry, that you’re already having to pour a great deal of conscious effort into making sure your breathing holds steady and unfazed. “Have we met?”

The man smiles and you watch his cigar shift from one side of his mouth to the other before he bothers to straighten up, now sitting properly and with enough of a smug look on his face to make the dread in the pit of your stomach start to solidify. “Beg your pardon, little lady.”

You catch a glint of metal out of the corner of your eye as he leans forward, your gaze tracking the motion of his fingers as he takes a long drag from his cigar and then carefully sweeps it from his mouth. You don’t see how far up his arm the prosthetic goes before you’re watching his other hand slide down to his belt, coming to rest just above the holster on his hip.

The _goddamn_ holster on his hip.

“The name’s McCree,” he says, and you feel your blood run ice cold, chilling you to the very bone because there’s really only one such gunslinger worth knowing of in the world of outlaws, one who just so happens to be a bounty hunter with notoriously good aim. You swallow thickly, knowing you’re cornered and cursing your luck for it because of course, _of course_ you had to get tracked down by Jesse fucking McCree, of all people.

Your tongue feels like sand and your mind is racing, desperate as you know you likely won’t manage to make it out the door without either raising a ruckus or taking a bullet to the temple, or both. You know it and Jesse knows it too, which makes things simple because there’s a mutual understanding that says you won’t bolt, but complicated, because it’s been a good minute since your imminent danger became clear to you and you still don’t have any idea how you could possibly escape.

You start to wonder how he’d found you, thinking he couldn’t have possibly followed you here considering the precautions you took to get even this far and concluding that you’d just ended up in the wrong place in the wrong time, and that he’d recognized you by some uncanny stroke of misfortune. You furrow your brow and curse softly, and as if reading your mind, Jesse chuckles and wedges his cigar back between his teeth.

“Pretty face like yours ain’t exactly hard to pick out, sweetheart.”

It’s hollow coquetry. You know as much, despite the way he looks at you with such an infuriating air of complacency in his smirk, but you still feel yourself treading the edges of a fluster that dusts your cheeks with something warm and light. You start to wonder if it’s possible that his flirting isn’t entire disingenuous, and it’s a thought that lingers in implicit suggestion, only made more real when you catch the faintest hint of a shadow flitting over his gaze as you bite your lip in contemplation.

It’s then that you lean over onto your forearms, more out of curiosity than anything else, but you don’t miss the way Jesse’s eyes flicker down your shirt as your torso bends marginally over the table. You’d left the top three buttons open for relief from the scorching heat of the day, but at this point you find that the only purpose it serves is to give whoever cares to hazard a glance a healthy dose of cleavage.

You feel yourself simper at the way Jesse chews at his cigar, looking as though he’s trying to remind himself that he came here for business, but his throat still shifts when he watches you cock your head and arch your back just a bit, peering coyly up at him from under the delicate swoop of your lashes. You flash him the sweetest of smiles and simply stare.

You’ll have to put your pretty face to good use, then.

“So… Jesse, right?” Your tone dips low into a range of allure that you haven’t found use for in a while, to say the least, but your voice regardless comes out smooth and rich, enough to show that you’re still privy to the art of seduction. The tip of your finger teasingly traces the rim of your shot glass and Jesse somehow manages to continue looking coolheaded, but he can’t help that his breath almost hitches at the sensuality of it, knowing exactly what you’re doing and yet finding it increasingly difficult to keep your actions from piquing his interest.

“You shouldn’t get your hopes up, darlin’,” Jesse purrs, sounding mostly confident even despite the soft tinge of pink now coloring his cheeks. “Whatever you’re tryna pull ain’t gonna work on me.”

At that you lean back and stretch your arms above your head, letting a soft moan fall from your lips as the motion wrings the tension from your muscles. Jesse swallows thickly, finding his eyes glued to the smooth sliver of skin that peeks out from under the hem of your shirt. He stiffens when he feels you drag your foot up the inside of his leg, little by little, and he can hardly stop the shaky groan that rumbles through his chest as your touch inches dangerously close to the rush of heat pressing firm against the front of his pants.

“No?” You lilt, a sultry smile tattooed across your face. “How much you wanna bet?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You spend the last of your pocket money on a cheap motel room, knowing it won’t matter anyway that you’re broke if you can’t manage to fuck your way out of this predicament. It helps that Jesse’s far from the worst looking person you’ve had to seduce, so you can’t really complain even though the air in the establishment is dusty and smells of mothballs, and the key you were given is so rusted over you almost can’t get it to fit into the lock. Even though the door creaks when it closes and the lights are fixed too dim to see properly. Even though you’re left with the taste of tobacco on your tongue when you’re pressed against the wall and kissed.

Jesse’s lips are surprisingly soft, even smooth as they work against your own in plush, fluid motions. His mouth is hot and unyielding against your own, and he uses just enough teeth to have you shuddering through the contact, despite knowing that you can’t afford to let yourself crumble under his ministrations. Still, it’s not long before his hands are on you too, tracing the line of your jaw, your neck, your chest. You give a deep sigh and arch into his frame, and he pushes back against you with a low groan, his palms sliding further down your body to stroke over the curve of your waist. You can’t help the soft gasp that bubbles up the back of your throat when you feel the cool metal of his fingertips slip up under the hem of your shirt, trailing teasingly along the stretch of your abdomen.

There’s no finesse in the way you tug his serape from his shoulders or reach under his arms to unclasp his breastplate. There’s no patience in the way you tear away his holster and grind against his belt buckle (you truly hope that it says ‘BAMF’ purely for ironic purposes), flicking it open to dip your fingers past the stretch of his waistband. Jesse groans as you palm him through his underwear, and you hum against his lips at the feel of him, half-hard and growing against your touch.

You use your other hand to yank open the front of his shirt, and Jesse mirrors your fervor so precisely you find yourself awed by how swiftly he undresses you, though he doesn’t seem to care how many buttons you manage to pop in your attempt to get him mostly naked. Instead he moans his approval as your fingers curl around the head of his length, and you take a step closer at his reaction, guiding him back and back until his calves hit the edge of the bed set in the corner of the room.

His hat slants off his head as he lays back against the mattress, and he lets his lips break away from yours only to smirk hungrily up at you as you move to straddle his hips. He uses his teeth to peel away the glove that once covered his right hand before reaching up to stroke over the bare swell of your chest, letting the rough pad of his thumb circle your nipple until he feels you shiver under his touch. You find yourself knotting your fingers in his hair as he leans up to mouth his way along the valley of your breasts, pausing only briefly to suck and nip at the tender flesh before dipping lower to press a kiss to your ribs.

He makes no effort to conceal his fascination with your body, lavishing every inch of your skin with touch upon deliberate touch, as though he were actually trying to pleasure you too. You can’t deny that his attention feels good, great, even, but you don’t have time to process the uncertain thought before Jesse’s stroking between your legs and you’re melting out of your apprehension, a sigh slipping past your lips as he curls a finger into you with something that can only be considered practiced ease. You feel your cheeks flush red at his chuckle and it has you all too aware of the arousal pooling in your core, but you can’t help the way your breath quickens when his thumb sweeps across your clit, hips rolling through the calloused drive of his knuckles.

“That’s it,” he purrs, his voice low and rich with lust, and you huff at the teasing nature of his tone. Then he presses a second finger alongside the first and you feel yourself shudder through the stretch, finding the stimulation pleasant but not overwhelmingly so.

Jesse’s tongue swirls against your nipple and you’re sure he’s just trying to get a rise out of you at this point, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a whimper or a moan. Instead you let your hand meander down the stretch of his abdomen, trailing slow, painstaking, meticulous over the sticky heat of his flesh. The contact forces a stutter through the rhythm of his wrist, and when you finally run your fingers up the underside of his shaft he outright growls, thrusting helplessly into your palm. You don’t think much of it even as you thumb away the moisture beading at the head of his length, but you have to smile just a bit when you feel his hips twitch under your touch, a shaky inhale giving away his impatience.

“C’mon now, darlin’…” He shudders as you pump him up and down, pace uneven through the shifting span of your strokes, and it’s not hard to see that the erraticism of it is driving him crazy. You’re tempted to relent, just so he won’t try to turn the tables on you later, but instead you give a noncommittal hum and Jesse bites his lip as your fist loosens. When you let go altogether he breathes a curse against your skin, panting heavy under the weight of anticipation.

He only looks up at you when he feels you tug at his wrist, coaxing his fingers out from between your slick folds before bringing his hand to your mouth. You make a show of sucking away the taste of yourself, tongue laving against the rough press of his skin, and you can’t help but bask in the sight of him, in all the glory of his wanton fluster, as you watch his lips part to make way for a rough exhale.

Jesse’s eyes flutter shut as you rock against his hips, coating the underside of his shaft in your arousal, and your thighs twitch at the sudden brush of metal when you feel his free hand cup your ass. He grinds against you hard and the pressure of it almost has you breathless, and when his fingers pull down from your mouth to pulse over your swollen clit you have to steady yourself against his chest to keep from buckling into his frame.

You shudder as his lips graze the line of your neck, either by habit or impulse, and unwittingly you feel yourself tilt your head to allow him more access, finding the affection strangely soothing even if it feels out of place. You hadn’t meant to stall this out for quite so long, but your core still tightens when you realize you’re enjoying the intimacy far more than you probably should. It really has been a while since you were touched like you mattered.

You’re so wet and warm that Jesse can barely stand it when you reach down to guide the tip of his length to your entrance, teasing and prodding between your throbbing folds. He groans into your jaw as your hips slide against him, thighs flexing as you sink down onto his lap, inch by inch, letting him fill you up at last. You trap a whimper behind your teeth as you settle flush against his frame, and you can feel his breath hitch when you move and the mattress starts to creak under your knees.

You ride hard. Not exactly fast, but forceful, assertive, and Jesse’s panting by the time your palms find purchase against the broad slope of his shoulders, breaths hot as they rasp past the rim of your ear. His fingers dig into the soft swell of your ass, his hips meeting yours every few strokes, and it draws a gasp from your throat whenever he pushes in especially deep.

 _God, does it feel good_.

Something carnal rumbles through Jesse’s chest at the feel of you rocking against him, your nails skimming the margins of his flesh as you clench around his shaft. The pressure in your core sends heat branching down your spine like lightning, and the more of it you take the more you worry the swelter in your blood will sear right through you. You’re not just running a routine this time, and you aren’t sure how to feel about it when the quiver of your entrance has Jesse murmuring a curse and a praise under his breath. There’s a thin wash of pride, or so you think, but after a while you find yourself not thinking about anything in particular as you oscillate your hips, working yourself higher and higher up the rungs of shameless pleasure.

You let yourself succumb to sensation, and at some point you start to find it all but impossible to hold back your moans. You give a sharp whine when Jesse bucks up into you, and it’s all encouragement but he doesn’t try to take control, much to your surprise. You feel him grunt as you shudder and arch into his chest, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder and his hands firm at your waist. His grip keeps your motions steady, precise, more a guide than a restraint, but the pace still sits with you as you fuck yourself on his length, and he, for one, cannot complain.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groans, and you let out a whimper as he punctuates his sigh with a shallow thrust up. “I ain’t gonna last much longer…”

A breathy chuckle slips past your parted lips and you’re driven to roll your hips a bit more roughly, your voice coming out heady and sensual even despite the tremor in your pulse. “Where’s your stamina, cowboy?”

Jesse feeds you a warm smile and a soft laugh that you aren’t at all expecting, and the heave of his chest has been growing incredibly unsteady for some time now but the flicker in his gaze still proves almost enough to stop your heart when he looks up at you, dark eyes gleaming like gold and playfully appraising you with the same sort of brilliance. Then you’re choking on a hot exhale as he pinches your nipple between two metal fingers, firm enough to have you gasping through the contact, yet gentle enough to keep from striking a twinge of pain through your chest.

“It’s been a while,” he admits, his voice only barely shaky. “If I’m honest.”

“Fair enough,” you manage, your skin prickling under the cool trail of sweat beading down your spine. Jesse’s hips jut up into yours and the realization that you’re dangerously close to your own orgasm hits you out of nowhere, leaving you desperate to hold on because there’s no way in _hell_ you’re letting yourself come before he does. A low growl rips through his chest when he feels you tighten around him, chanting an indiscernible string of curses as you work down on him almost frantically, a last-ditch effort to finish him out before you start to fray at the seams.

At first you don’t register the rugged moan that skips over your skin as Jesse pulls you up and off him, and it’s what you’d meant for all along but it’s still frustration, agony in your core when he presses his face into your collar and comes hot against your thighs. Your teeth tear into your bottom lip as the need for release wrenches a sob from your lungs, but Jesse’s still holding you against him as his hips twitch and buck and you’re very nearly begging, dying to be filled again, your entrance throbbing and aching from the rejection.

It’s enough when a rough thumb grazes your clit, it’s enough and it’s heat pouring through you as Jesse strokes you clear through your orgasm, testing the boundaries of hypersensitivity with every lingering touch. It’s nothing but pure, unadulterated bliss that warms you from the inside out, and you almost don’t let yourself tremble in his arms, but you can’t stop yourself anyway, not when you’re already vividly aware that this kind of vulnerability has never, _ever_ felt so fucking amazing.

“Whoa, there…” Jesse breathes, a chuckle light in his throat as his fingertips travel in slow, soothing circles over your hip. You’re still panting, riding on nothing but a fluid aftershock of pleasure that you can’t foresee stopping anytime soon. Gratification ripples through you endlessly as you sigh and force yourself to sit upright, the wetness between your thighs a reminder that cools your flesh alongside the fade of your arousal.

“Did you think I wasn’t gonna take care of you, darlin’?” Jesse lays back against the mattress, throwing a smug smile up at you as you sling your legs over the edge of the bed. You give a snort and roll your eyes, but it’s hard to really look dismissive when you’re still mostly a mess, your cheeks flushed with warmth and your skin slick with sweat.

“Wouldn’t have been the first time a man screwed me over.”

Jesse outright laughs at that, and it’s not exactly subtle but you think you see him nod in understanding before he’s tucking his hands behind his head, letting a sated sigh fall from his lips as he cozies into the sheets beneath him.

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to have to add me to your list, now, would I?”

There’s just enough nuance in his tone to have you casting him a cautious glance, brow furrowed, suspicion deep in the shadow of your stare, because he can’t possibly mean what you think he means. Just letting you leave would be far too easy, and you were already more than prepared to sneak out through the bathroom window while he basked, or better yet, dozed off in a pale afterglow of contentment. He might fall asleep anyway, you realize as he places his hat partially over his face, leaving only the soft edges of his smirk visible from under the tattered leather brim.

“Uh…” The urge to cast your eyes to the floor is stronger than ever now that the uneasiness is back, fluttering heavy in the pit of your stomach. You can’t help but count your blessings when Jesse fills in the gaps for you.

“Y’know, a good romp and a game of chase’d beat out your bounty any day, little lady.” He grins, tilting his hat back just far enough to wink up at you. “Reckon I’ll give you a head start this time.”

A game of chase?

You’re not sure how long you contemplate the suggestion, but Jesse’s deep in the warmth of slumber by the time you decide to simply take what you can get, whether or not it really is too good to be true. You learn that he’s a snorer, and the sight of him sprawled out on the too-small bed, still naked and utterly at ease, almost brings a smile to your face.

You end up climbing out through the window anyway, and part of you hopes you’ll see him and his stupid belt buckle again.

_A game of chase?_

You can’t say you hate the thought of that.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is sponsored in part by my good friend who helped me hash out the juicy details way back in like September or some shit, so a huge thank you to them for that!


End file.
